by Swan, Tarn
To cut a long story short he was voted and crowned Miss Springtime Queen. His face was a picture of triumph and delight, as Brian placed the crown on his head and Miss Cherie Pie presented him with a huge bouquet of flowers, a magnum of champagne, and a gift voucher for a pamper day at a gay beauty salon. He was all dignity and grace, except for a moment just after being crowned when he punched the air and bawled YES in a very unladylike manner. I didn’t allow him much basking time. As soon as he’d had his photograph taken I told him to make his excuses and leave. He complied without argument, which said more about how much pain he was in than about submission to my authority.
As soon as we got outside he clutched at me, begging me to undo him as fast as I could because his lungs felt like they were about to collapse. I just about ripped the damn dress off him, tearing at the leather and steel corset he was wearing under it like a sex mad Victorian disrobing a virgin bride. As soon as it was undone he dropped to his knees gulping in air and then he threw up. I was furious and not only with him but also with whoever had helped lace him into the instrument of torture. No wonder he wouldn’t allow me to see his costume until it was too late for me to prevent him wearing it, or more correctly, prevent him wearing what went under it. I don’t mind him wearing normal girdles and light corsets, but I will not allow him to wear the extreme lace up articles that can qualify as implements for bondage torture in a BDSM dungeon. They’re dangerous. They affect the internal organs, stop you breathing properly, bring on fainting and can crack ribs and consequently puncture lungs with a possibly fatal outcome. He refused to tell me who had aided and abetted him, but it didn’t take a rocket scientist to work it out. Lulu had arrived only minutes ahead of him and had carefully avoided meeting my eye.
After settling Twinkles in the car I stormed back into the PP and located Lulu. It wasn’t difficult seeing as he was attired to look like a vase of spring flowers, with dozens of huge crepe paper flowers burgeoning from the bosom of his frock. I was angry with him for helping Twinkles do something so dangerous. Grabbing his hand I towed him towards the toilets, only to be intercepted by Brian who discreetly offered me the use of his office to have a quiet word with him. I’m afraid my level of crossness demanded more than words to express it. He got the fright of his life when I bent him over the back of a chair and tanned his backside, while telling him exactly what I thought of his reckless brand of friendship. I doubt it hurt too much, not over his dress, but the shock factor was enough to reduce him to tears. Leaving him seated sobbing on the chair I’d walloped him over I asked Brian to look in on him, and then I took Twinkles home.
The corset had been laced so tightly it left contusions around his ribs, stomach and waist. I coldly informed him that if he ever bought such an item again, he’d be one very, very sorry man, because I’d buy a cane and stripe his backside with it. I put him to bed and the corset in the bin. He tearfully apologised for his deceitful behaviour, saying he had just wanted to be the very best for once and really stand out. Standing out was one thing, I said crisply, but passing out was quite another. We had a big day ahead of us with the Christening and Twinkles would be uncomfortable enough with his bruised ribs, so I told him that we’d defer discussion of the incident until Monday.
The Christening took place this morning. The church was packed to the doors, as the Christening itself was being done as part of the Easter Sunday celebration of resurrection and new life. With all the candles and flowers and hymns the atmosphere was overwhelming in its way.
Twinkles was highly emotional and also nervous about being the only gay amongst so many straight people. I pointed out that he wasn’t the only one. He said I didn’t count because I could pass for straight and seemed to have a natural affinity with their strange ways and mannerisms. He let out a shriek when he saw Dominic in his christening robe and the priest in his Easter vestments, indignantly rounding on me for not letting him wear a dress when the baby and the priest were both in drag. There was another sticky moment when the priest, Father Wayne, took Dominic and held him over the font, pouring the cold baptismal water over his head. The baby didn’t like it at all and immediately began to scream and cry. Twinks gave a sharp intake of breath and snatched Dominic away from the priest. Slapping at his hand he called him a brute. He then burst into overwrought tears. I ended up cradling a howling baby in one arm and a sobbing partner in the other. Half the congregation were in shock, the other half in giggling hysterics. Karen and Paul were no help. They hid behind the Baptismal candle until everyone calmed down. Twinkles apologised to Father Wayne for his overreaction. Flinging his arms around him he hugged him, telling him he really liked his dress. The priest, bless him, was a true Christian, and accepted Twinkle’s apology with a smile.
There was a traditional party after the Christening and Twinks enjoyed himself by dissing some of the christening gifts, ‘cheap antimony made in Taiwan, darling, don’t polish it too hard or the silver will rub off.’ Our gift to our godson was a building society account, a baby bond, of which we are trustees. We thought that come twenty-one Dominic would prefer to have a nest egg rather than a silver-plated eggcup. I also bought him a cuddly teddy bear, while Twinkles bought him a huge chocolate Easter egg that I’m certain will be enjoyed more by mummy and daddy than by baby.
As I said, it’s been a long tiring week. I’m shattered and was glad to get home this evening after the Christening, even if it was to find a familiar envelope lying on the doormat. No doubt it will contain an Easter message of peace and love from our adoptive nut case. I couldn’t be bothered to open it. Twinks has toddled off to bed to watch television and stuff his face with his own Easter eggs. He seems to have forgotten about the matter of the corset, but I certainly haven’t.
29th March 2005:
Homemade Is Best
Twinkle’s was utterly mortified when he found out that I’d disciplined Lulu. I was unrepentant, especially when it transpired that it was actually Lulu who sold him the wretched corset in the first place. He’s recently become an agent for some alternative mail order company and gets commission on everything he sells. He knows just how dangerous those contraptions can be and he had no business encouraging Twinkles in foolish vanity, especially not for the sake of 25% commission. My only regret was in not pulling down his knickers and spanking his bare backside, an oversight I didn’t repeat when it came to disciplining Miss Springtime. He spent most of Easter Monday in a martyred huff while polishing the faux jewels on his Miss Springtime crown.
The Easter message from our devotee read: ‘the wicked shall not profit by their sin. The time for retribution draws nigh.’ Twinkles gave a great big grin and flinging his arms around my neck said that he and Lulu had profited very nicely from sin. Lulu with his commission and he by winning the crown and the prizes that went with it. On the downside, they’d both ended up getting retribution. He said he was sorry. I kissed him and then shoved the note out of sight. It’s really rather disturbing how almost blasé we’re becoming about them. I suppose it’s a survival mechanism. Easter ended very pleasurably with a packet of Cadbury’s chocolate buttons and a couple of Crème eggs…yum…homemade body paint is so better than the ready bought variety. It’s sticky and messy, but fun!
1st April 2005:
Pity Party
The vendetta against us, or whatever you want to call this petty harassment, stepped up a notch yesterday. Someone poured battery acid all over the bonnet of my car. It was not a pretty sight I assure you and neither was my reactive language. It was a real shock, especially as Twinkles and I were laughing about something as we came out of the house on our way to work. It soon wiped the smile off our faces. I was less than courteous to the police, asking whether it was going to have to take one of us getting acid flung in our faces before they made a real effort to catch the person responsible. Not that I let Twinks hear me say such a thing, he’s upset enough as it is. I found him downstairs at two o clock this morning digging away at a two-litre tub of chocolate mint ice
cream while watching The Bird Cage with the sound turned down. I got a spoon, turned up the sound, put my arm round him and joined in with the pity party.
The incident has preyed on my mind all day today. I don’t feel like going out tonight, but Twinks is determined to carry on with business as usual…so get up off your bum, Tarn love, and start getting ready (his instruction)
8th April 2005:
Of Lice And Men
So, there we were, last Saturday evening, watching Doctor Who on TV. I was being careful not to appear too appreciative of the good doctor, as portrayed by Christopher Eccleston sporting a leather jacket and a sexy Northern accent, lest a jealous Twinks grab the remote and switch over to Ant and Dec on the other channel. They’re sweet in their way, but are mere boys in comparison to our friend from the North. I was reaching for my drink when Twinkles, who had been scratching at his head all evening, suddenly let rip with a shattering scream. I almost had a spontaneous bowel movement. Flicking something from his fingers he leapt to his feet and began yelling about things crawling in his hair. I calmed him down and told him it was probably just dandruff. If only! There was no way to soften it. After examining his head and finding a veritable colony of tiny creatures more repulsive than anything ever encountered by Doctor Who, I told him as calmly as I could that he had head lice.
He went ballistic at the thought of having things living on his body and drinking his blood. Where had they come from? He suspected Lulu of having planted them as revenge for me spanking him (who did I think I was? John frigging Wayne!) I might have guessed I’d get the blame somewhere along the line. He began tearing at his hair, sobbing and demanding that I get rid of them. Then something even worse occurred to him and he clapped a hand to his groin, panic stricken lest they work their way down and begin nibbling at his pride and joy. He might never get an erection again if they interfered with the blood flow down there. I told him that I didn’t think they travelled around the body and that head lice were so called because they lived on your head. I called mum and asked for advice. She told me that modern methods advocated using lots of hair conditioner and a fine toothcomb to get rid of the disgusting beasts. She, however, was of the old school and favoured the chemical approach: get thee to a chemist and buy strong stuff to nuke the little horrors from the face of the earth and scalp. Her comforting postscript was that if Twinks had lice then chances were I had them too and I’d have to do the treatment alongside him.
Fortunately the pharmacy in Safeway was still be open, so I told Twinks I’d go and buy something to eradicate his unwelcome guests. He insisted on coming with me, as he didn’t want to be left alone with the creatures. There was no telling what they’d do if they got him on his own. Poor Twinks. He walked with hunched shoulders in a manner that suggested he had a block of Semtex complete with detonator strapped to his head.
The pharmacist on duty was one of those people blessed with industrial strength vocal chords. His reply to my discreet enquiry was to boom in accents that could be heard at the other end of the galaxy, never mind the shop, ‘AND HOW OLD IS THE CHILD THAT HAS THE HEAD LICE, SIR?’ Twinkles gave me a wild stare that clearly stated ‘don’t you dare tell him how old I am.’ To make matters worse who should turn up, but Natalie’s other half, Kevin. He came on scene just as Foghorn Leghorn whipped a box off the shelf and roared, ‘THIS SHOULD ERADICATE THE LICE IN NO TIME. JUST SHAMPOO IT IN, THEN COMB OUT THE DEAD LICE AND NITS!’ Twinkles fainted, hitting the floor with an almighty crash and bringing down a promotional display of flavoured condoms in the process.
Kevin is really rather a sweet boy. He helped me get Twinks back to the car and assured him he would tell no one about our little problem. Twinks refused to be comforted, telling me that Kev might not say anything, but that evil COW Natalie would spread it all over the PP and beyond.
Getting rid of the lice was a grotesque procedure. The stuff had a truly vile smell and then there was the horrible business of combing out the corpses afterwards. It was a revolting experience. We sat there like two chimpanzees, combing and picking at each other for most of the evening. We wracked our brains to think where we might have picked them up. Seeing as they’re something usually associated with children, I suspected they came from Karen’s little nephew and niece, Michael and Grace. Twinkles had played patiently with both children at the Christening (he’s turning out to be rather good with kids) At one point he was walking around with two year old Grace perched on his hip, because she was tired and getting fractious with all the excitement. She fell asleep with her head on his shoulder. Karen later confirmed that Michael, who has recently started school, was the source of the infestation, spreading them to his sister, who spread them to Twinks and thus to me. It makes you appreciate how easily the Black Death got about.
On Monday night we attended the theatre to see the gay version of Swan Lake, the ballet that my staff got me tickets for as a Christmas gift. Twinkles ended up disgruntled and outraged on several counts. One, I wouldn’t let him go dressed as a ballerina complete with tutu and tights. I snootily informed him that it wasn’t pop cult like the Rocky Horror Show and therefore did not require the audience to blend in with the cast. It was ballet and conservative, if you set aside the gay issue. He compensated by being extra lavish with the eyeliner and mascara.
To his dismay and the dismay of many in the audience (mainly men wearing tutus) the ballet company, not content with turning Swan Lake into an all male event, decided to break further with tradition and had all the dancers attired in what appeared to be a dumbed down version of the overalls worn by Kwik Fit mechanics. There was not a frothy tutu, tightly fitted waistcoat, white feather, sparkly tiara or pair of bulging tights to be seen anywhere. Twinkles was gutted. I bought him an extra large chocolate ice cream in the interval to try and cheer him up. While appreciating the undoubted skill of the dancers, the production lacked a certain je ne sais quoi, tradition, grace, finesse, just something, and it wasn’t helped when as a finale, a cloud of blown up condoms floated from the rafters. Give me Margot and Rudolph any day of the week. She was straight, he was gay and twenty years younger than she was, they could dance like angels and make you believe they were in love. The only thing I believed after watching this production was that the after show party would probably be something akin to a gang bang from a low budget gay porn movie. Romance, perhaps that was the missing element? Why is there an assumption that being a gay man equates only to being horny and not romantic? Most of the audience could and probably did access porn via the Internet every day of the week. They had come to the theatre for romance, and found it not. Of course I told everyone at work that it had been a wonderful production.
On Tuesday evening I was in the kitchen tidying away after dinner and Twinks was upstairs tidying the bedroom. I was just putting clean cutlery into the drawer when there was an almighty explosion followed by screams from above. I slammed the drawer closed on my hand in fright and consequently fractured my left pinkie. I didn’t feel it at the time. I dashed upstairs yelling Twinks’ name. He was fine, thank God, just shaken. Alas, the Dyson vacuum cleaner was quite dead. It seems he’d been hoovering the bedroom when it suddenly occurred to him that a cunning head louse might have escaped and be holed up in one of his wigs, waiting to strike again. So he decided it would be a good idea to try and hoover it out. Of course, unlike hair, a wig isn’t anchored to a scalp and as soon as Twinks applied the Dyson to his Cher wig, it was sucked straight up, jamming in the hose. Twinks, panicking about his beloved wig, tried to shake it free, knocking over a glass of water on the bedside cabinet in the process. The water found its way up the hose and into the electrics, thus causing the over stressed hoover to explode. After hugging him, because I was relieved he hadn’t been electrocuted, I gave him several sharp slaps on the rump and lectured him about the appropriate and sensible use of household appliances. I then went onto the landing and indulged in some silent, agonised screaming for my finger, which by then was making known its displeasure abou
t being jammed in a drawer. An x-ray confirmed it was fractured. There’s not a lot you can do for a broken finger, except have it taped and try not to knock it against anything.
I can’t complain that life with Twinkles is ever dull, though occasionally it would be nice if I could.
10th April 2005:
The Price Of Admiration
He’s still in mourning for his Cher wig; it hasn’t been the same since it got trapped in the hoover. Copious amounts of shampoo and conditioner have done nothing to fix the resulting split ends. He sits endlessly combing and stroking it. It looks likes he’s nursing some bizarre, boneless breed of longhaired cat.
I’m pleased to report that all has been quiet on the anonymous hate mailer front since the car incident. Maybe it was the pinnacle and they’ve now sated their hatred against us. We can but hope.